


Enkindle

by regnant



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drabble, F/M, but i like it, show canon, you might call this a crackship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-01 13:46:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8626858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regnant/pseuds/regnant
Summary: He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire.





	1. Burn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snowspriestess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowspriestess/gifts).



> For a good friend.

Her ruby red eyes had shined like blood on snow that first day.

He'd tried to ignore the glimmer there as they regarded Ghost, graced her flames, doted upon her One True King.

She could never have eyes for a bastard with a nobleman dead center in front of her, even if one did sit on the throne.

Jon was not pliable gold encasing emeralds. He was dusty coal and wight eyed.

The eyes were perhaps the hardest to ignore when they were on him.

She was fire, and she consumed.

He was coal, and he burned.

Soon enough, the fire appeared anywhere he went.

He saw it in the droplets soiling Ghost's maw after kills, in the embers dying beneath the stew pot at mess, and even in the rippling copper of his sister's hair as she had wrapped her arms around him for the very first time.

Flame and coal. When they coalesced, an uproar of heat melted the snow into a great sea. They rode on the backs of the waves to victories.

She was his expatriate queen, and he her bastard prince, atop a throne of billowing snow and flickering flame, fire and blood.

Perhaps fire could not kill a dragon, but it had surely ensnared one.


	2. Castle

In the furs, it is hard to tell where he ends and she begins. They coalesce to the point of conception, stark differences forming something new. Two creatures without origin, one houseless and the other homeless, one freezing and the other melting, finding the perfect middle. They are ink and cayenne, snow and flame, one made of sin, the other reborn in temple.

In her chambers, candles spill their wax to the floorboards like open wounds. Her heat scorches, destroys, rebuilds again, and the ice that has stolen love since arrows quenched his fire turns to sweat, rain, love stains, oh, and made of love they _are_ , of broken vows and mended hearts. She pushes away the cold that he has grown to call home, and any need for it, _for there is no home like her._

They build a castle from the ashes each time she wakes.

In the sleepless expanse of night, with only the frolic of flames for company, he wonders, at her stories, at her red god, her faith. He wonders if it was like this with the True King, the False Prince, if the flaming heart set upon his armor was a simple metaphor or something more.

In his heart, since set aflame, _he_ knows the truth for himself, to be sure. Even when they walk atop the wall, he is warm. He feels the fire that must have lived in his father's heart, but none of the words, the melodies, that graced his throat. He has a girl who was once named Melody for those. She sings to her Lord as sunsets dance in her eyes, speaking secrets that he has yet to see.

In her, he finds home, the future, and in him, she finds peace with the past, sleep.


End file.
